In youth, what disappointments of our own making: in age, what disappointments from the nature of things.
As night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.
When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
He mourns the dead who lives as they desire.
An angel's arm can't snatch me from the grave; legions of angels can't confine me there.